Sunday, September 27, 2015

This is how you learn to smile... first at yourself! My daughter has requested me, a plea I would like to believe…
however, an ultimatum at the least. “When you write about me, at least tell me!”

Apparently I got some ‘facts’ wrong and she was confronted
in school. “It’s not Thomas telling Brenda to keep her undies on. Thomas doesn’t
say that…” she made her point.

I’m at fault. I can’t stand young adult fiction. Only the slang
in there catches my attention. So, yes, I messed up the characters. [Am eager
to know which set of parents are my readers, but she has no intention of revealing
her source].

My dad has requested, a plea I would like to believe…however,
an ultimatum at the least. “What all are there in this world to write about.
Why write about our family!”

Apparently, some in my extended family were offended by one of my recent postsand they had an audience with him… I would like to believe,
rather it was a veiled complaint at the least.

This is no defence rather an explanation in the simplest
possible words I know.

Missing the wood for the trees and pouting is like boozing
and blaming the brewery when you puke. Ha… here I go yet again. Now, this is a
foul-smelling simile, I admit and confess I mean no offence to anyone in
general and none in particular!

This is me. Living amidst you. And so when I write it’s
about me and you. If only I lived in ether, I could snort helium and make light
of all egos…here I go again. Now, this is a heavy-handed allegation, I admit.
But snort it out and read me again, I bet, you’ll laugh WITH me, when not AT
me!

Or like my girl, have the nerve to spread out the facts! I
love being defeated by my baby. Any day!!

PS: Learning to laugh at oneself is the cheapest remedy to all ills! Try it!

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

“Relax,” said the surgeon, as my wet palms grabbed his
wrist the fourth time.

I idled. Half-lying, half-sitting, gaping at the roof
attempting to pray for it to be all over without my knowledge and all the same petrified
I would pass out, so much so I mumbled: “How long will this take.”

“Few minutes more.” He waited for me to chill as I
counted deep breaths, when I heard. “What you are feeling is pressure. Not
pain. Relax. We are almost there…”

The last time I laid helplessly listening to these
words was in the delivery room. But then, I vividly remember the feeling was pressure
and that pressure was pain.

“Let loose”, he said, pulling my cheek apart as if
gutting a fish and I felt the hammer come down on my wisdom tooth. I shut my
eyes tight, fooling my hyper-working brain that if I don’t see the armoury over
my head, it would not hurt. But my hands once again attacked him.

He stopped for the third break in the 15-min procedure, trying to pacify
me. “You are numb. I cut your jaw bone. Did you feel?” I grunted. I drilled
around. Did you even know?” I grunted again. “It’s not pain. It’s just a
sensation you are feeling. Nothing to fear. All I need to do is extract it out.
The major part is over…”

Two days after the procedure...a 'swollen' selfie

Yeah, I thought to myself. The major part was, indeed, over. It had all
begun the previous day, with a casual visit to our
dentist to clean my teeth, when I mentioned that one of my wisdom teeth acts up
once a while. After examination, he revealed that half of that tooth is still embedded
inside and has no space to pop out. “It's better to remove it.”

And before I knew, a wire with a black square peg went
on rampage inside my mouth clicking X-Ray. “Let the tongue loose. I need to
place this beside the tooth", the dentist said, thrusting the peg almost into
the epiglottis and I wrenched. “Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself,” he
cautioned.

"Let me place it," I volunteered. Graciously
he agreed and waited patiently checking the monitor screen. “No. I need your
tooth,” he said, pulling at my cheek, maneuvering the wire back and pushing it
deep within…all at once and I jumped up. "Please! I’m petrified of
puking." He smiled, "okay, we'll make do with this."

What a gem of a dentist!

"So, we'll fix it tomorrow. How about 2pm?"

"Fine by me."

"Good. I'll pass on the X-Ray to the
surgeon..."

"Surgeon!!!"

“This is not a normal procedure. Your jaw bone needs
to be operated upon to extract the tooth…”

What did I get myself into!

“Now I felt my alive cheek being slapped. Relax,” I
heard the surgeon say the nth time, when my gem-of-a-dentist said, “Maybe she’s
in pain, it’s not numb...”

“No way. I’ve injected the [some name I can’t remember
now] nerve. This is phobia, doctor…” Then he turned to me, “the only other option is
to give you general anesthesia. But why go for such a step, when we have come
this far. It’s almost over.”

I gripped the armrest with both hands and squeezed my
eyelids tighter, as I felt the jaw almost rip apart from my face. Tapping me
again, he stopped: “Open your eyes. Now I'm going to try moving the tooth. You'll feel the pressure. Okay. It's just pressure.” I took a deep breath. "Relax. Keep your eyes open. Just a couple of minutes more." Was he afraid I'll pass out? Forced to keep my eyes open, I saw a heavy-looking tool go inside my mouth and I tensed. "Relax" he said and I decided to look elsewhere. That's when for the first time that noon I looked at him.

Damn it! Thick shapely brows, unusual for a man, set on light skin above dark eyes
shaded inside long lashes…His gelled hair gleaming under the surgical light,
with two thick strands hopping over to the side brushing his broad clear forehead
made me trace his chiselled nose from under the mask. His fingers were long within
the off-white glove going to and fro from inside my mouth to the assistant to
his right. The coffee-brown button on the carelessly-rolled-up white linen
sleeves, made me squint down to check and lo! he was in denims!

“It’s over!” he said, dropping the mask down on his
neck.

"Really?"Tall men in
white-denim combination have always distracted me.

"Yes ma'am"

Me, ma’am!! Why…

“I’ll prescribe a painkiller. Don’t worry, You’ll be
fine.”

Uh! Fine!! That night, I tossed in bed popping painkillers. I was
on baby food for the next few days. A month later, I’m still cautious on using
my right molars… And I thought giving birth was the most traumatic experience.

However, am yet to figure out the consequences of the
two experiences… The other day my baby said, “You know what mamma, now you
should stop advising me because your average wisdom is less than mine!”

Sunday, September 6, 2015

This weekend I slept with my feet
wrapped in hot water bags, thanks to my lineage I am conscious about.

On Friday, I stood for over 7 hours
in the kitchen, followed by entertaining guests. But before cracking down, I did
stand upright for the record.

After a tiring yet exciting day... one for the album

"Do you really want to do this?"
asked my girl when I requested her to click our pic.

"It's not everyday I drape a saree and your papa a mundu. Come on, quick."

"Honestly, mamma. You are so
obsessed with yourself," she replied adjusting the lens.

We had our Onam celebration and I was
determined to have the banana leaf filled from tip to edge. Managed to layout
18 items for each of the 13 invited guests. Now, that's not a big deal as
Onasadhya means the more the merrier.

The problem was that I was on my
feet, paranoid, cooking second round of most of the dishes afraid it would not
suffice. Pots of rice were boiling even when the guests were at the dining
table, which will now last me the whole week after distributing it to my
houseboy, car cleaner and watchman.

After cooking, re-cooking, topping up... finally

“Why don’t you sit with the stuff at
the building entrance and give it all those who walk in," quipped my
in-house grandma, before threatening me, “Don’t give this when I return from
school on Sunday. One more day I’ll manage.”

"Well, my dear. I have no
intention of dumping these. Why do you think I packed food for the guests when
they left..."

I blame this paranoia to serve on my
genes. My mom’s family are generous servers. You can gather your entire
neighbourhood [no exaggeration] and visit any of my maternal aunts unannounced
and you will be sumptuously served. In fact, force-fed. For them feeding guests
is the way to peoples' hearts. And my mom’s always fed the best to guests,
while my brother and I only got the left-overs.

My dad’s family, on the other hand,
are stingy givers. My paternal aunts reserved the best for their families and
offered the remaining to guests. One day, I saw one of my aunts place a banana
bunch comprising over 20 bananas on the table before three guests. “Please
take. It’s from our farm.” Neither of them took any. What a trick!

On another occasion, another aunt of
mine fed just fish gravy and yoghurt to two guests who had arrived uninvited
during lunch hour, saying, “How sad. We just finished lunch and no fish these
days. Please manage with this.” One of these guests returned to collect something
that she had left behind only to find the family having a lavish lunch,
including two varieties of fish!

An acquaintance of mine waits until we
take leave and at the door says, "you should have waited for dinner".
This has been her staple statement every time I visit. I guess, the fault is
mine. Next time I’ll drop in during the day.

I
caught another one serve three dates on a plate before a group of five guests,
saying "please help yourself". When I gave her the head count, she
replied, “others are diabetic”.

I love
tracing problems to their roots. So, while my lack of confidence in cooking and
kitchen judgement may have resulted in my sore feet, upon peeling the layers I discovered
that I'm overtly jittery when it comes to serving guests, only because am petrified
lest my lineage force-feeds confused genes into me!

Seriously,
am not cooking this up… I was wide wake on Friday night, despite retiring to
bed early, wondering how I can make space in the fridge!